San Andreas Read Online Free PDF Page B

habitually prim expression, the steel-rimmed glasses which she occasionally affected and a faint but unmistakable aura of aristocratic hauteur. Captain Bowen wondered what she looked like when she smiled: he wondered if she ever smiled.
    He explained, briefly, why he had come. Their reactions were predictable. Sister Morrison pursed her lips, Dr Sinclair raised his eyebrows and Dr Singh, half-smiling, said: ‘Dear me, dear me. Saboteur or saboteurs, spy or spies aboard a Britishvessel. Quite unthinkable.’ He meditated briefly. ‘But then, not everybody aboard is strictly British. I’m not, for one.’
    â€˜Your passport says you are.’ Bowen smiled. ‘As you were operating in the theatre at the time that our saboteur was operating elsewhere that automatically removes you from the list of potential suspects. Unfortunately, we don’t have a list of suspects, potential or otherwise. We do indeed, Dr Singh, have a fair number of people who were not born in Britain. We have two Indians—lascars—two Goanese, two Singhalese, two Poles, a Puerto Rican, a Southern Irishman and, for some odd reason, an Italian who, as an official enemy, ought to be a prisoner-of-war or in an internment camp somewhere. And, of course, the survivors of the Argos are non-British to a man.’
    â€˜And don’t forget me,’ Sister Morrison said coldly. ‘I’m half German.’
    â€˜You are? With a name like Margaret Morrison?’
    She pursed her lips, an exercise which seemed to come naturally to her. ‘How do you know that my name is Margaret?’
    â€˜A captain holds the crew lists. Like it or not, you are a member of the crew. Not that any of this matters. Spies, saboteurs, can be of any nationality and the more unlikely they are—in this case being British—the more efficiently they can operate. As I say, that’s at the moment irrelevant. What is relevant is that the Bo’sun and two of hismen will be here very shortly. Should an emergency arise he will assume complete charge except, of course, for the handling of the very ill. I assume you all know the Bo’sun?’
    â€˜An admirable man,’ Dr Singh said. ‘Very reassuring, very competent, couldn’t imagine anyone I’d rather have around in times of need.’
    â€˜We all know him.’ Sister Morrison was as good with her cold tones as she was with her pursed lips. ‘Heaven knows he’s here often enough.’
    â€˜Visiting the sick?’
    â€˜Visiting the sick! I don’t like the idea of an ordinary seaman pestering one of my nurses.’
    â€˜Mr McKinnon is not an ordinary seaman. He’s an extraordinary seaman and he’s never pestered anyone in his life. Let’s have Janet along here to see if she bears out your preposterous allegations.’
    â€˜You—you know her name.’
    â€˜Of course I know her name.’ Bowen sounded weary. It was not the moment, he thought, to mention the fact that until five minutes ago he had never heard of anyone called Janet. ‘They come from the same island and have much to talk about. It would help, Miss Morrison, if you took as much interest in your staff as I do in mine.’
    It was a good exit line, Bowen thought, but he wasn’t particularly proud of himself. In spite of the way she spoke he rather liked the girl becausehe suspected that the image she projected was not the real one and that there might be some very good reason for this: but she was not Archie McKinnon.
    The Chief Officer, one Geraint Kennet, an unusual name but one that he maintained came from an ancient aristocratic lineage, was awaiting Bowen’s arrival on the bridge. Kennet was a Welshman, lean of figure and of countenance, very dark and very irreverent.
    â€˜You are lost, Mr Kennet?’ Bowen said. Bowen had long ago abandoned the old habit of addressing a Chief Officer as ‘Mister’.
    â€˜When the hour strikes,